A Distant Future
by yarnybear
Summary: What happened to Jane Farrar after Nathaniel went and got himself killed? I dunno either, so I just put a might-have-been thing.


Story

So, what's this story about? This is my first Bartimaeus fic, and I haven't read the books in ages, but the first lines came to me as I was sitting on the toilet, trying to get the poo out.

And as the poo came out, so did the idea for a new story.

**A Distant Future**

**Chapter 1**

Admittedly, she was pretty, exceptionally so. She was close to beautiful, but not quite. And she was cold, with hard eyes like flint. She shone, bright among the stupidity of the masses, a burning flare against the backdrop of humanity. It was her charisma, her extremity that made her stand away from everyone else, like a Rolls Royce in a lot full of junk Pintos.

She was hard and cold - like a comet. And like a comet, she streaked over the horizon, faster than anyone else. She left burning flashes in the memory, little sparks. Those sparks were the people that she used to claw her way up.

Those people had mixed emotions about her. Some were intrigued from this distant, cold woman, admiring her from afar. And some were witless, not knowing her for what she truly was. And still others saw her as a monster. They saw her in a true light, as a person's form is revealed by a glaring spotlight, when others who do not have the light see the terrifying shadows. They saw her cruelty, her viciousness, and yet they could not say a word for fear of her malicious retribution. And they remained mute.

They whispered her name as she strode through the halls and passages of Whitehall. Only in whispers, quiet murmurs, would they disclose their fears about this woman. In the crowded break rooms, the filthy bathrooms, the dusty supply closets, their deepest fears were revealed.

People never met her eyes as she walked past them in busy halls; they made room for her as the staccato sound of her high, pointed heels drew close. And when she was gone, they'd breathe a sigh of relief. Relief that she hadn't fired them – or worse. For there could be worse. The rumors that circulated said that she was different. Like Duvall was.

Firstly, she called in sick every month. Well, not exactly once months, but every twenty eight days, just like clockwork. She was gone for one day, and one day only, and was back the next, no different than before. Except that she was snappy and ruder, if that were possible. And she left for a favorite restaurant of hers for lunch, just once a month. For she needed to satisfy her craving for _foie gras_ and _steak tartar_.

She_ was_ different, no question about it. It wasn't that fact that she was a woman; that wasn't too much of a surprise since she could do her job as Prime Minister better than any man ever could.

But there was something about her the more superstitious people wouldn't trust. Sure, she balanced the budget and wiped out the riots – for now. She was fair and just, but her punishments were severe.

They said she consorted with demons, and that was why she was so cold, like her heart was made of stone, or ice, like a comet. On the street, the rumors spread like wildfires, so not a single commoner was ignorant of her ways.

Because she did consort with demons, djinn, in fact. And she was quite proud of her ability to overpower them.

Everyone was afraid of her, for she could stare a heavily muscled man down in just mere seconds. Her icy grey eyes, with no laughing lines framing them, and the cold set of her mouth could put a person off. And if they didn't obey her, her ferocious demons could tear them apart.

She worked full hours, maybe overtime, in the large spacious office. It was one of the privileges of being the head – the Prime Minister - of the Empire. There were large windows with Venetian blinds, fully remodeled after the city wide destruction by Lord Nouda so long ago.

Her fashionably bobbed hair was tucked demurely behind her ears, with just the slightest touch of grey at the temples.

At first glance, if you didn't know her, you'd think she was just a woman in her prime, doing her job to service the country. But as you got to know her, you'd realize that her frigid glares could chill you, and make you stumble and stutter for words. She unnerved people, and she wasn't afraid to turn her polar stare to full intensity on the most unwitting of people.

But she wasn't, and that was exactly what she did when Mr. Schallocke came up to her at nine A.M., just after her assistant had brought her coffee.

She made him falter in his speech asking for more funds, and then snapped at him, waving her fingers. He got the hint and scurried out, with backwards glances at her pleasant, smiling face.

The door slammed, and she was left for three more hours of solitude, left to distract herself from the boring monotony of work.

And in the fateful three hours, she left her physical body to roam in the mental realm of her mind, down the years to that night, the night when her whole life changed and made her what she was.

"_We don't need you, Farrar!" a man yelled at her, and she shrieked back, her shrill screams echoing through the room._

_She pulled off the thick ropes around her wrists that had been hastily cut, leaving her skin scraped and nicked. "You'd let _Mandrake_ lead you! What utter fools you people are!"_

"_Nevertheless, Whitehall's on fire, and we have to do something. I suppose you'd just tell us to sit down and wait for the wolves to come and save our sorry hides. But it's too late now, Farrar. Do what you want. We're leaving." The man brushed off his cheap tweed coat and left her._

_Her fingernails dug into her palms, leaving small red crescents. She gritted her teeth, and looked around to see if anyone had stayed on her side in the small, cramped rooms. There were ropes, all empty. Everyone as gone, left to follow _Mandrake_, of all people on his foolish quest._

_She growled, and the sound rumbled through her chest, reverberating through the room. And her body began to stretch and lengthen…._

She tore herself from the thoughts. The rejection, the humiliation of being yelled at by her inferiors rankled her. She sighed, and went back to work, her silver fountain pen's nib making scratching sounds as it scribbled over the smooth, linen rich papers.

**Author's Note: I haven't updated my other stories in ages, I'm sorry, but I don't have that much time any more. I've been getting more and more end of the year projects to do, and I haven't even started. Just bear with me, and maybe, when school ends, I can be more active.**


End file.
